


Underneath the Charging Sky

by pukeandcry



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pining, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 18:04:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukeandcry/pseuds/pukeandcry
Summary: Dylan hadn't expected to be in Tucson this year. He hadn't expected to still be so fucked up about Connor. He hadn't expected a lot of shit, and Latts was definitely on that list.





	Underneath the Charging Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Came pretty close to just titling it the Sad Boys Who Miss Their More Successful NHL Exes Club - Tucson Chapter, but, you know. Thank you to my beautiful witches for reading it over and telling me I'm good.

Connor is busy. Obviously. Connor is basically never _not_ busy, and that’s how it’s been since they were like, sixteen. Dylan is used to it, all the extra responsibilities that go along with being McJesus, and how it means Connor doesn’t always have time to be worried about him. It’s not like Connor can just be like, _oh, yeah, hey, I know I’m supposed to come to this fancy meeting, but Stromer’s feeling kinda shitty about being sent down again, so, sorry. Gonna have to reschedule_.

Not that there’s really anything Connor could about it anyway.

Dylan pretends not to be surprised when Connor texts him three days after he arrives in town, even though he kind of is.

_How’s Tuscon??_

Dylan’s doing basically nothing in his hotel room, and squints out the window like that might give him a good answer. He can’t think of one himself. It’s a pretty typical Connor question, honestly, because it leaves it up to Dylan how he wants to answer it. He could just say, like, _hot_ , and they’ll both act like that’s all there is to say. He could be honest and say _pretty much a nightmare, bro_ , but that’s – a little much.

Davo would probably say he _wants_ to hear it, even if it is heavy, but that doesn’t mean he _needs_ to either.

He’s busy. He’s got more important stuff to worry about, and anyway, Dylan’s a big boy. He can get a fucking journal if he needs to share his feelings.

He takes a Snapchat of the window, swipes over to the weather filter so it shows 102 degrees Fahrenheit over the ugly drapes, and sends that to Connor with the text, _shitty!!!_

So, kind of both options.

Davo doesn’t answer right away, and it’s okay, because Dylan has practice anyway.

-

He can’t stay at the hotel for much longer. It’s been a couple of weeks, long enough to get the message that Kempe is probably staying up in his spot for the longish haul at least, and moreso that living in a hotel is about to flip over to being the _more_ depressing option up against finding somewhere real to stay.

At least in Erie that had been out of his hands, and they’d just shuffled him off to a billet family right away. Things tend to go easier when Dylan doesn’t have to pretend to look like he knows what he’s doing.

The smart thing to do would be to hook up with one of the other guys on the team. Lots of them have monthly apartments leases, apparently the acceptable middle zone between denial and acceptance.

Latta is the one that corners him about it, eventually. They’re in the changing room after practice, and Latts hasn’t gotten all the way dressed yet. Dylan doesn’t _super_ know the guy, but he’s already pretty sure that’s his default setting: shirtless.

Out of everyone on the team so far, Latts is his favorite.

Not because of the shirtless thing.

Latts is just _nice_. He laughs a lot, and takes hockey seriously, but not so seriously he turns into an asshole about it. To be fair, that’s true of lots of the guys there, but Latts also _gets_ it, at least sort of, which is probably why Dylan has already basically imprinted on him. It’s sort of his signature move.

“Hey buddy,” Latts says, thunking down on the bench next to him. “Killin’ it in shooting drills today.”

Dylan does a stupid no-teeth grin and puts on his matching stupid media voice. “Just gotta go out there and give it a hundred and ten percent every day, coach, you know. No days off, no excuses, no–”

Latts kicks him in the leg. “This guy! So fucking funny. Listen, you aren’t busy now, right?”

Dylan should _probably_ protest the implication that he’s already crafting a rep for having fuck all going on in his life.

“Well, I’m very popular, so,” he says.

Latts ignores that, rightfully so. “Come over for lunch. I’m gonna make turkey burgers and I bought too much ground turkey.”

It’s basically an order; Dylan does well with explicit instruction.

“Do I have to shower first?” he asks. He’s been lazing around and putting it off.

“Yes, nasty,” Latts tells him. “And be fast, I’m hungry.”

Dylan stands up, and does what he’s told.

-

Latts has a two-bedroom apartment in a complex with a nice pool and solid views. Too much desert and sand and shit, obviously, which in Dylan’s opinion doesn’t count as landscape – trees are mandatory for that – but the sunsets are pretty dope.

“The sunset is pretty dope,” he repeats out loud. They’re sitting by the pool now, after Dylan kicked Latts’ ass at 2K17 three times in a row and he rage-quit. He’s a video game sulker, apparently.

Latts does that funny little head quirk half-grin half-frown face he pulls fairly often. The first couple of times he’d pointed it at Dylan he’d thought it had been judgmental, but he’s starting to get now that it’s kind of – a less stupid word for _fond_ , he guesses.

“So hey,” Latts says, kicking his feet up on the table. “I was thinking. Do you wanna crash here? If you’re tired of your hotel room, I got a free room now that my family’s gone.”

Dylan remembers now. Latts’ brother had been in town, and he’d been toting his chubby baby niece around lately, showing her off to everyone. He’d seemed super proud of her. Probably sucks that she’s gone now, even if Dylan doesn’t exactly know what you’re supposed to do with a baby.

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“I can’t take care of myself, man, I need a roommate,” Latts says. “Also, you know. Carpooling to the rink is probably good for the environment.”

“The environment,” Dylan scoffs, and then, “I can’t take care of myself either, though.”

“That’s cool. We’ll just be, like, two raccoons in a dumpster, then.”

It must say something about Dylan’s headspace that somehow that sounds fairly appealing.

“Yeah, man. Thanks. If you’re sure I won’t be invading your personal space or whatever,” he says.

Latts snorts. “Man, we’re hockey players. We don’t know what the fuck to do with personal space.”

And – yeah, okay. Fair enough.

-

Dylan moves in three duffle bags of clothes and shampoo and shit, his gear, a backpack, and a toaster oven, because Latts’ apartment doesn’t have one, and Dylan has a thing for pizza bagels.

“Unplug that at night, man, I don’t want to building to catch on fire,” Latts tells him, squinting at the toaster over suspiciously when he sets it up.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” It feels nice, having someone to bicker with. Marns is always talking about _love languages_ , and even though it’s annoying as hell, Dylan’s pretty sure his is bickering.

“Toaster ovens catch fire, like, ten times more often than other kitchen appliances.” Latts is frowning at it like it’s about to explode at any second. “I read it.”

“Where do you read something like that?” Dylan asks, laughing.

“Internet,” Latts tells him, like that’s that.

“Oh, yeah, right, can’t argue with the internet.” Dylan reaches behind the toaster oven and yanks the plug out of the socket anyway. “Land of fake Nigerian princes and chicks pretending to like taking three dicks at once.”

“What kind of porn are _you_ looking at, pal?” Latts laughs, and Dylan flicks him off.

“We’re not that good of friends yet,” Dylan says primly, and picks up a duffle back to take to his room.

“Wait, hang on,” Latts says, trailing after him. “What’s your time frame for trading porn recommendation within a friendship, eh?”

Dylan’s laughing when he shuts the door in his face.

-

When Dylan had first met the team, Latts had had some time to settle in, whereas Dylan was still smarting over having to pack his fucking suitcase, like, _again_. So he had been off, and trying not to be, or at least not let it show too bad. 

“Stromer!” Latts had shouted when he’d walked into the locker room, like they were best buddies.

“Latta,” Dylan had said nodding. It was nice to recognize a face from around, even if they’d exchanged maybe like, twenty words total in the past. It took a minute before Dylan glanced around at everyone else, checking out who else he recognized. “Laws, hey. Fellas.”

The rest of the guys had come up and bro-hugged him, then; he’d found his locker, he’d pulled on his pads. It was all normal as shit, and vaguely awful.

Latts had skated up to him out on the ice during practice. “Hey, man, let me buy you a welcome drink this week. GTA bros duty, you know?”

The shitty part of Dylan had wanted to say no, because he didn’t _want_ any sort of welcome, at least not down here, where he had been so sure he wouldn’t end up, not this time.

The rest of him was just tired, though, and yeah, probably lonely. Already.

“I’m not twenty-one yet,” he’d said.

In the end, Latts had taken him to an Olive Garden after practice and bought him a raspberry margarita.

Dylan had thought, briefly, about how absolutely fucking weird-sad his life currently was, a number three draft pick sneaking sips of a pink cocktail while their teenage waitress wasn’t looking in a mall parking lot chain restaurant, before ultimately getting distracted by free breadsticks.

-

It works out okay, though. Latts ends up being a good roommate. He’s better about remembering to go to the grocery store than Dylan’s ever been, especially when left to his own devices, but he isn’t prissy about leaving junk on the coffee table or gear scattered around.

He’s fun to chirp, which, in Dylan’s opinion, is clutch. If you can’t make your buddies go furiously red when you’re busting their ass for eating shit in warm-ups or burning chicken breasts in the oven, what’s the point?

They work out together, too, just because it makes sense. If Latts is going to the gym, Dylan probably has the free time too, and might as well. He’d resolved not to slack at all this year.

Latts is stronger than Dylan. He lifts more, and he just _looks_ solid in a way that reads more grown-up. Dylan keeps waiting to finally stop looking like a lanky university student, even though he supposes that technically, that’s what he would be right now, in a different world.

The biggest benefit of living with another person is just – being around another person. Dylan tries not to cling too badly, because that’s not very chill, but Latts seems to like his company, and it’s nice to have someone to just watch TV with at night.

Their main point of roommate contention at the moment is whether to watch _House of Cards_ or _Narcos_ on the big TV. Dylan maintains he should get to pick tonight, on the grounds of Latts being distracted on his phone, and _House of Cards_ being confusing as fuck.

“Who are you even texting?” Dylan asks. He’s pretty sure he already knows. They’ve been roomies for about a month now, and in a fully normal way, he’s started to recognize what Latts’ face does when he’s talking to someone from the Caps.

He’d asked Latts about them once or twice, mostly just about Ovechkin and his one-timer (although he’s not sure if _how_ really counts as a fully formed question) and shit, and Latts – well. He always gets that complicated face, like he has a lot to say about his old teammates, and isn’t sure how much he wants to, or maybe should. He keeps his answers pretty normal – Dylan learns that Ovechkin gets drunk and likes to kiss everyone on the cheek, which isn’t super surprising, and that some of the team really do believe in a curse – but other than that, Dylan gets the feeling that there’s still a lot of shit simmering under the surface there, and it’s just easier not to address it head-on too often.

He gets that pretty well.

He also knows that sometimes it’s an enormous relief when someone asks, anyway.

There’s a pause, and Dylan thinks Latts _might_ tell him to fuck off – he’s got an assessing look in his eyes when he glances up at Dylan – but eventually he just shrugs a little and says “Tom. Wilson, I mean.”

“Mm,” Dylan says neutrally, and steals the remote when Latts goes back to his phone.

Latts doesn’t even notice.

-

Latts isn’t his roomie on the road. Probably he would be, if Dylan asked, but that seems – weird? He doesn’t know. Too needy?

Latts does sometimes come hang out with Dylan and Merk in their room pretty often, though, which is fun. It’s not like Dylan has ever really had a _tough_ time making friends, it’s just that he feels better once that particular task is over and he’s, like. Settled. Part of an established crew.

Merk and Latts are scrolling through Merk’s phone, presumably on Tinder, even though Merk is supposed to be meeting up with a girl in an hour anyway.

“Right,” Latts says. “Right. Right again. Yeah, right.”

“You can say no, y’know,” Dylan tells them. He’d been doing sit-ups for no real reason, but has mostly given up now, just laying on the hotel floor with his phone open.

“Gotta cast a wide net,” says Latts, and then puts the phone aside, squishing Merk’s cheeks between his fingers. “Look at this face, man! I swear to god, it is my new mission in life to get you a girlfriend.”

“I can get a girlfriend on my own!” Merk says, although he doesn’t actually bother taking his face out of Latts’ hands.

“No one from Alberta has any social skills,” Latts says. “Confirm, Stromer?”

“Confirm.”

They keep dicking around, laughing and sometimes throwing pillows at each other. Dylan gets off the floor once he gets hit, and eventually steals Merk’s phone back from Latts.

“It’s probably bad manners to be swiping on other chicks right before you go on a date,” Dylan says, even though he doesn’t actually care. No one listens to him, anyway.

In the end, Merk leaves Dylan and Latts to go on his date, and the two of them squeeze onto Dylan’s bed and open his laptop to watch the Caps game.

It’s funny to look at Latts’ face while he watches them. Dylan’s pretty sure it’s not the _same_ expression he makes when he watches Connor play, but it’s probably pretty close.

It’s a pretty unremarkable game, up until Wilson drops gloves with Reaves in the second after a borderline hit. Latts tenses up and breathes out unhappily.

“He’s gonna get suspended again if he keeps it up with that shit,” Latts says, displeased. He doesn’t specify who he means; it’s pretty obvious. “I always tell him…”

He trails off, though, and glances over at Dylan like he’s not sure if he wants to continue.

“You and Wilson were close, huh?” Dylan asks, hoping it comes out casual. He knows playing it cool isn’t always his strong suit.

Latts just sighs. “Yeah, we were – yeah.”

“Still talk often?”

Latts does look at him, then. “Sometimes, yeah. I mean. Both of us are busy. I saw him over the summer for a while, at camp, but it was… only for a couple of days.”

Dylan doesn’t think that’s how Latts had originally planned to end that sentence, but he doesn’t call it out.

“You must miss him.” Dylan’s probably on thin ice, in terms of acceptable bro-talk, but whatever. Latts is his friend.

“Yeah,” Latts says, with a flat little laugh. “I must.”

They watch the rest of the game mostly in silence, except for Latts’ small noises of approval when a play works out. When the Caps clinch it 3-1, he cheers like it’s a win for him too.

“Night, Dyl,” he says happily, patting Dylan’s leg on his way out.

-

 _Your boy’s hammered at maroon’s bbq_ Ryan texts him one night, following it up with a million cry-laughing emojis. _Im gonna push him in the pool_.

Dylan isn’t jealous. Jealousy is a stupid, useless emotion at this point.

 _you break him you bought him_ , Dylan says, even though he doesn’t even know what the fuck that means. It sounds vaguely jokey, at least.

 _He can swim, right?_ asks Ryan.

 _not sure…….._ , Dylan says, even though he knows of course Connor can swim.

Maybe that’ll dissuade Ryan from dunking Connor, at least. Honestly, the solids Dylan puts up for Connor never stop, even when he has no idea.

Connor does end up calling him the next day, though, clearly looking for sympathy, while Dylan’s walking aimlessly through the apartment after a run.

“I don’t feel good,” Connor says pathetically.

“Yeah, bud, we grown-ups call that a hangover,” Dylan says. He’s trying not to smile, and failing. “Take an Advil.”

“I didn’t even drink that much,” Connor whines. God, he’s such a baby. Dylan’s still accidentally smiling about it.

“Not what I hear.”

“Why are you hearing anything?”

Dylan leans his forearms on the counter. Behind him, he hears Latts’ footsteps coming up, and a minute later he pads in, barefoot and without a shirt, his hair mussed up from whatever.

 _Hey_ , Dylan mouths. Latts points at his phone, raising his eyebrows, and Dylan doesn’t even bother pretending not to know what he means, just nods.

“I have eyes everywhere, Davo,” Dylan says.

They talk for a few more minutes, until Connor decides he’s finally ready to try taking a shower, and Dylan hangs up with a weird smile still on his face, resting his free hand on the refrigerator door.

“Your voice is different when you talk to him, y’know,” Latts says after a minute from behind him. “You say his voice in this certain way – like, ‘ _Davo_.’”

Dylan flushes with embarrassment, mostly because Latts has it nailed in one. That little disbelieving downturn to Connor’s name that Dylan always ends up using when Connor’s being extra cute or extra stupid. He hadn’t realized it was so obvious.

“Yeah, well, you get a semi when Wilson texts you, so guess I’m in good company.”

Latts rolls his eyes. He also doesn’t argue.

“It’s cute,” he says instead.

Dylan puts his face against the refrigerator. The air conditioner kicks on at his feet and he wiggles his toes on the tile.

For once, he doesn’t particularly want to crawl through the floor and die when the topic of his stupid soft spot for Connor gets called out. Latts must be special, or magic, or something.

“Did you know one time in juniors he got stuck in his billet family’s washroom?” he says, mostly to the fridge door. “He went in to change a lightbulb while they were at work and the doorknob broke. Like, it wouldn’t turn the latch. He had to call me and ask what to do.”

“What did you tell him to do?” Latts asks.

“Climb out the fucking window,” Dylan says, huffing a laugh. “He said he’d get in trouble.” Connor was already basically been guaranteed to go first at that point, and apparently first draft picks aren’t supposed to risk breaking their neck climbing out a second story washroom window.

Latts is standing behind him, now, pretty close.

“Marner used to say Davo says my name stupid too. Like it’s always a question.” He can hear it. _Stromer? Hey Stromer? What do I do, Stromer?_

Connor is maybe the only person in the world who’s ever needed Dylan’s advice. He used to feel qualified to give it. Now he’s not sure.

He’s gonna have to take his forehead off the fridge at some point. In a minute, maybe.

Behind him, Latts puts a warm palm on the back of Dylan’s neck. It feels steady and grounding. Which is funny, since Latts is basically neither of those things.

Still nice, though.

“How’d he get out?” Latts asks eventually, after they’ve been standing like that way longer than is plausibly normal. “Of the washroom.”

Dylan smiles with his eyes closed. “We figured out he could unfold a wire coat hanger that was in there and use the end to pry the latch back. It just swung open once he did.”

Davo had been so fucking embarrassed about having to explain it to his billet family, all pink and screechy while Dylan laughed at him over Facetime even after he’d finally gotten free. He was a couple months away from draft day and about to have a fucking meltdown because he’d broken a twelve dollar doorknob.

On the road the next day, Connor had napped on Dylan’s shoulder during their bus ride. At one point, he’d opened one of his eyes and looked up at Dylan. “I should have just had you come over and help me get the door working,” he’d said, like he’d just now realized Dylan had been a ten minute drive away the whole time. “You would have fixed it.”

“Yeah, well, you gotta learn to thrive without me one of these days,” Dylan had said. Connor had just said _hmm_ and gone back to sleep, eventually drooling on Dylan’s hoodie.

“That’s fuckin’ Macgyver shit,” Latts says now, and then drops his hand, stepping back. Dylan turns around, and Latts has his arms crossed, giving him a vaguely impressed-slash-amused look that makes Dylan shrug.

They look at each other for maybe longer than is normal, Latts kind of appraising, Dylan sort of sheepish. It feels – he doesn’t know what.

“Hey, get some lettuce,” Latts tells him eventually, nodding towards the fridge. “We’re having tacos.”

-

“Stromer,” Latts says, and then, “Dylan. Hey. Wake up, buddy.”

Dylan’s eyes open, slowly. “Huh?”

They’re just home from a long, exhausting roadie, and Dylan had face-planted on the sofa the second he’d come in the door, barely bothering to kick off his slides. Dylan had played like he was fucking on _fire_ the whole trip, putting up four points in their last game alone and feeling like king of the goddamn world afterward. It has lasted through most of the trip home, and he’d spent it shouting and putting the boys in headlocks and shit until the adrenaline had crashed, and so had Dylan. By the time they’d gotten home he was dead on his feet, and had only vaguely heard Latts puttering around the house before falling asleep.

He wonders what time it is now.

“You wanna go to bed?” Latts asks. It must be late, because most of the lights are off, and his voice is soft.

“Mm. Can’t move,” Dylan says pathetically. He feels warm and heavy, and standing up is the last thing he’s interested in right now. Latts rolls his eyes at him.

“Your neck is gonna hurt,” he says, reaching down to grab Dylan’s wrist. “Get up, you big baby.”

“Nooo,” Dylan whines. He yanks his arm, and Latts doesn’t let go, instead takes a stumbly step forward and ends up sitting down on the couch.

“You’re an idiot,” Latts says, smiling. “And lazy.”

“Be nice,” Dylan says. “I scored twice tonight.”

“You did,” Latts agrees. His hand is still on Dylan’s wrist, only now it’s looser. There’s a moment, and then his thumb starts moving, just a tiny bit, over the ridge of bone. “It was good.”

“Good?” Dylan repeats, kind of stupidly.

There’s a long moment, and Latts lets out a sort of heavy breath. “Yeah, Dylan. Good job.”

Dylan’s stuck somewhere between sluggish and prickled with awareness. Latts’ hand feels nice on his skin, and his hip is pressed flush along Dylan’s leg. It’s a little too warm in the living room, and Latts is just… looking.

Dylan thinks he knows that look.

“Latts,” he says, and then, “Michael. Hey.” He nods, just a little.

Latts moves in slowly enough for Dylan to stop him, bringing his hands up to rest on Dylan’s biceps very carefully, and that’s how Dylan knows, yeah, he was right.

“Okay?” Latts says softly when he’s pulled Dylan semi-upright, his own body caging Dylan in against the armrest. They aren’t quite touching, but it’s tight and close, and Dylan only wishes it was closer, the kind of consuming clutch he can lose himself in.

“Yeah, definitely,” he says. “Is it cool if I…”

He’s not sure what – whatever Latts wants, if he’s being honest – so he tilts his head up, letting his neck stretch as he reaches out for Latts’ hips.

“Do it,” Latts says. So Dylan does.

He gets Latts up on his knees over him, and then the waistband of his shorts down. Latts’ face is a little pink, and when Dylan gets his hand on his half-hard dick his eyes drift shut for a minute.

“Stromer,” Latts says softly, and then tips his head down so it’s resting on Dylan’s shoulder. “Yeah. That’s – that’s good.”

Dylan knows enough about himself, at this point, to know that he likes that. When someone tells him he’s doing good. Even if it’s nothing particularly impressive, just a slightly-awkward twist of his wrist as Latts gets all the way hard and starts thrusting into it, it’s… it’s nice of Latts to say.

Latts starts to squirm and make noise after a minute, fully hard and into it now, which makes Dylan’s hips jerk up against nothing. Latts sits back for a second, but just to pull off his shirt, and once he does Dylan lets his free hand come up to rub against Latts’ stomach, his chest. He’s so warm, and solid in this compact way that Dylan really likes.

He’s not sure if he’d been expecting this or not, honestly, but now that it’s happening, it’s hard not to be happy about it.

Latts likes him. Latts trusts him.

Dylan’s wrist starts to cramp eventually, so he pulls back and repositions them both so they’re lying on their sides, facing each other. That feels… closer. Better. Latts takes Dylan’s shirt off too, reaches into his shorts so they’re both just _there_ , jerking each other off, bare chests nearly touching.

It’s exactly what Dylan wants, right now. He can focus all of himself on this, on the little twitches and gasps coming out of Latts, the _mmf_ noise he makes when Dylan’s hand twists at the head of his cock, the way he’s getting wet. It’s enough that Dylan kind of loses track of how hard _he_ is, the probably too-enthusiastic way he’s rabbiting up into Latts’ steady grip. He tries to slow himself when he notices, but it feels really _fucking_ good – it’s been a while since he’s gotten laid – and he thinks Latts is about to come.

“Latts,” he says, and his voice comes out either breathy and sexy or just very stupid, but he doesn’t care, because it feels okay. It all feels okay, and Latts’ eyebrows furrow a little bit, and Dylan whispers “C’mon,” right before Latts shuts his eyes and comes.

Dylan feels a surge of success that he thinks he could probably ride all night, just from that.

Latts’ hand doesn’t stop, although it does sort of lose focus while he comes back to himself. It’s okay – Dylan can wait. Latts’ eyes open again after a minute, and he breathes out heavily, smiling kind of crooked. “Good,” he says contentedly, the praise feeling warm, and then tightens his grip, speeding up until Dylan is gasping and on the edge.

When Latts leans down and kisses him, his mouth soft and warm, Dylan loses it and jizzes all over them both.

-

Latts isn’t the first guy Dylan’s jerked off or anything. Not by, like, a wide margin.

Latts _is_ only the second guy Dylan’s kissed, though, which is maybe what he’s getting stuck on.

-

He wonders if it’s going to happen again, or if it was a one timer. Both options are doable, in his experience, and it’s mostly what Latts is chill with.

He suspects Latts is chill with a lot more than other guys.

And he doesn’t, like, have a _crush_ on Latts or anything, but once again he thinks, yeah, Latts probably gets it. All of – everything, the shit that keeps Dylan up at night sometimes when he doesn’t push himself hard enough on the ice. So it makes sense that it’s nice to have someone like that in his life, someone on the same page as him, someone to just – get it.

That’s probably why it’s such a relief when it happens again two nights later, this time while they watch a movie.

It happens again after that, and again. So do other, normal things. It just becomes part of their _thing_ , driving to practice together, bitching at each other to change the Brita filter, and getting each other off.

Dylan waits for it to get weird, but the weirdest thing is that it doesn’t, really.

-

Pat Maroon is probably a very nice guy, but if Dylan has to hear one more sentence that starts with “So me and Pat,” he might smash his head against a wall.

Nothing personal. 

And honestly, it’s not that he resents Pat being Connor’s friend. God knows Connor needs _someone_ to look out for him. He requires basically constant prodding to remember to talk to other human beings about things that aren’t about hockey and to actually go outdoors sometimes.

It’s just – does Maroon have to be so fucking _good_ at Connor-duty?

Dylan’s held the number one spot for years, excelling at knowing when Connor needs to be pushed a little, and when he’s at his limit, what each of his weird microexpressions and verbal tics means, and to be suddenly and unceremoniously usurped by a guy whose nickname is fucking _Big Rig_ is just kind of insulting.

Or maybe inevitable.

“There’s, like, a whole secret menu they don’t advertise anywhere,” Connor’s telling him over Skype. “You just have to _know_ about it.”

Apparently him and Maroon had gone on a date or whatever to this fancy sandwich place in Edmonton, one with shit like arugula and aioli on everything.

Dylan remembers when Connor wouldn’t even eat tomatoes on his sandwiches.

“Really,” he says, trying not to sound too bitchy.

“Yeah, it’s – I mean, I didn’t want to go at first, obviously, because how are you even supposed to order if you don’t know what you _can_ order? That’s just–” Connor shakes his head at the baffling nature of a secret menu.

 _You can look it up on Yelp,_ Dylan thinks, although clearly that’s not a helpful insight now.

“But Pat had been before, so he told me what to say, you know? So that helped.”

“What’d you get?” Dylan asks. Not that he particularly cares. It just doesn’t seem right for Maroon to have a monopoly on Davo’s sandwich information.

“I don’t remember what it was exactly,” Connor says. “It had this, uh. Cheese? Pat said I would probably like it, though. He’s a good cook too, did I tell you that?”

“Probably, yeah,” Dylan says. He’s trying really hard to be interested, to be genuinely happy for Connor, because _Connor_ seems happy. And in a way, Dylan is. He knows it’s not easy for Connor to feel comfortable with other people.

“He roasted broccolini for me and his girlfriend the other night. Did you know that’s a thing?”

“Like regular broccoli?” Dylan asks.

“Kinda, but taller,” Connor says. “You should try it.”

“I will,” Dylan says, already resolving that he will never fucking eat broccolini as long as he lives. “Hey, how’s Cam doing?”

He doesn’t think Pat Maroon has infiltrated Connor’s family life, yet, at least.

Latts comes into the living room, but stays quiet and out of frame, just keeping one careful eye on Dylan until they hang up.

“McDavid good?” he asks once they do, putting his feet up deliberately on the coffee table.

“He’s fine,” Dylan says, scowling. He wants – he doesn’t know what. To lay a heavy hit on Patrick fucking Maroon, maybe, if there was a universe in which that was possible. To crawl into Latts’ lap and just let him tell him what to do. To dunk his head in the pool and scream.

“It sounds like he’s getting along with the team,” Latts says, still careful.

“Yep.” Dylan says. He sounds like a sulky teenager. Whatever. “Maroon is teaching him all about the wonders of vegetables, I guess. Apparently now he loves broccolini.”

For a second, he’s kind of impressed by how much betrayal he somehow infuses into such a stupid sentence.

“Wanna hear something dumb?” Latts asks eventually.

“I would,” Dylan answers honestly.

“I blocked a restaurant on Twitter today.”

Dylan snorts. “Why?”

“It’s dumb,” Latts warns again.

“Obviously.”

“Because it was the place right next to our apartment where Tom and I used to eat all the time when we lived together, and it was pissing me off seeing their specials on my timeline and shit.”

Dylan laughs, and Latts does too, because it _is_ dumb.

And he understands _exactly_ why Latts did it, so. Maybe he’s not the only idiot in the apartment.

“Fuck that restaurant, though,” he says.

“Fuck broccolini,” Latts says back.

-

He blows Latts later that night, crawling into his bed and putting Latts’ hands on the back of his head while he sucks.

“You can, you know,” he says, sitting back on his knees for a second. His mouth feels red and spitty from Latts’ cock, and he wants more. The way Latts is looking at him, like he _wants_ Dylan, like it’ll fuck him up if Dylan stops – he wants more of that.

“You can make me,” he says, trying not to blush.

“Make you what?” Latts asks, his hands still threaded in Dylan’s hair.

“Make me take it,” he says hoarsely. “Make me make you feel good.”

“You do,” Latts says, but pulls Dylan’s head down anyway.

-

The Roadrunners are tied for second as points leaders, apparently. Their shot percentage is number one, they’re tied for third on wins, and everyone’s apparently highly amused that they’re doing so well when the Yotes are choking so badly.

Objectively, yeah, it’s kind of funny.

It sure doesn’t _feel_ funny, though.

“Your shots on goal are insane, man. It’s so stupid they haven’t called you up yet,” Connor says over the phone. “Like, you’d _definitely_ be an asset for their roster. I don’t know what they’re thinking.”

Dylan’s hand is in the snack cabinet. There’s some dumb dry-roasted fava beans and kale chips and that’s it. Latts has horrible taste in snacks.

“Development,” he says distantly. It’s hard to focus, given how he has these thoughts _all the fucking time_. They’re not new just because they’re coming out of Davo’s mouth. “Room to grow, leadership opportunities, blah blah blah. I’m basically a fine wine aging in the hot-ass cellar that is Tucson.”

“Wine cellars are supposed to be cool,” Connor says seriously, and then, “I think.”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” Dylan says, smiling vaguely. There’s half a sleeve of Ritz crackers at the back of the cabinet that he grabs. “You don’t know shit about metaphor.”

-

“Flex,” Latts tells him, holding up his phone and scooting next to Dylan. They’re in L.A. and screwing around at the hotel pool since for once they’re actually at a place with an outdoor one. Merk’s floating in the pool while Dylan and Latts eat fries on their loungers. Their bus doesn’t leave for another hour.

“What?” Dylan asks, even though he’s already instinctively pushing his shoulders forward and clenching the muscles in his chest.

“For a selfie,” Latts says, holding his phone higher with Snapchat open. “Look like you’re having fun.”

Dylan does something with his face.

“No, _fun_ ,” Latts says, and Dylan punches him in the arm.

It takes seven tries until they get one where neither of them is squinting weirdly, or has a weird shadow on their chests. Latts positions them so they get Merk floating in the background behind them, their bare shoulders just touching, and then sticks a billion dumb stickers that say CUTIE!!! and BEACH BABE pointing at Merk in his bright yellow swimsuit on it.

It’s so very clearly a thirst trap thinly disguised as a chirp. If Dylan’s shoulders and cheap sunglasses count as a thirst trap, at least.

“I’m putting this on Instagram,” Latts says. “Want me to send it to you?”

Dylan nods, sticks it up on his Insta once it comes through, changing Latts’ caption so it says “merk still not as hot as tucson,” and tries not to feel a little embarrassed.

It’s probably super obvious. Or maybe it isn’t. Who knows at this point?

He tries not to check his phone too much afterward, through the rest of their fries and checkout and piling onto the bus, but it’s hard when Latts keeps doing it, obviously waiting for something that isn’t coming through.

Dylan wants to ask if Wilson checks Insta very often, but isn’t sure if that’s allowed. At least Davo forgets about his more often than not, which makes it easy not to take it personally when he doesn’t like any of Dylan’s pictures for like, days.

“You looked good,” Latts tells him later that night when they’re back home. He’s wearing a toque and no shirt and shoving his bare feet between Dylan’s torso and the couch cushions. “In that picture, I mean.”

“Oh yeah?” Dylan asks, trying to sound sarcastic and not just horny for praise.

“I’d double tap it,” Latts says.

Which is nice, since Connor still hasn’t.

-

Sometimes Dylan thinks about asking Latts the question.

_Do you think you’re gonna get called up again?_

But he knows you can’t ask that. Unspoken rule of any feeder team, especially here, just one step removed. The issue hadn’t been so pressing in juniors, since so much of that team was still chomping at the bit for their first taste of the show. Only the lucky few got to try it on for a little while before heading back there. Dylan must be really lucky.

Sometimes Dylan thinks about asking Latts the other question.

_Did you two ever…?_

You can’t ask that, either.

-

The two of them watch Edmonton play in Toronto, and Dylan tries not to feel anything but stoked for his bros. He’s getting pretty good at it. Marns taps Davo on the ass with his stick at one point, though, the two of them laughing and gesturing at each other, and Dylan makes a whiny little noise without meaning to.

Latts looks over at Dylan from next to him on the sofa, and then pulls at his arm until he lies down, resting his head on the meat of Latts’ thigh.

“Chill,” he says, and puts a hand in Dylan’s hair.

It doesn’t precisely help Dylan _chill_ , but it’s nice anyway.

Latts keeps his hand there for a long time, and eventually starts moving it, just a little. Not petting, but not _not_ petting either. Sometimes his fingers tighten a little, as best they can in Dylan’s short hair. His mouth drops open, pressed slack against the material of Latts’ basketball shorts. He might start drooling soon, stuck in this weird half-alert half-dazed place. He’s definitely going to start getting hard, but if that happens, well. Whatever.

“Is your boy gonna score again tonight?” Latts asks him partway through the third.

Dylan snorts against his thigh even as his stomach tightens. “Probably not.” Connor’s legs haven’t seemed great tonight. Not that he’s been watching.

“Hm,” Latts says above him. “Wanna turn it off?”

He does. He doesn’t. “Okay.”

They end up naked in Dylan’s bed, Latts kneeling over the backs of his thighs. His blunt finger tips are pressing into Dylan’s hips, and he’s trying not to squirm too much, his dick feeling raw against the comforter.

“Hey Dylan,” Latts says. “You’re good. Okay? Everything’s fine.”

Dylan hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding his whole body until he hears that, and then sags on an exhale.

“Good,” Latts repeats behind him, starting to shift his hips. His cock is hitting the back of Dylan’s ass, pressing against his thighs, and the motion is rocking Dylan into the bed in turn.

They both come like that, rolling against the bed, against each other, Latts’ hand firm and comforting against Dylan’s ribs.

“You could fuck me,” Dylan says afterward, quiet. “Sometime, I mean.” His face is shoved mostly into the pillow. It’s probably for the best, because he can tell he’s turning red as he says it.

Except then Latts is rolling him over, forcing Dylan to look at him.

“Dyl,” he says, serious but careful. “Do you. Is that what you want?”

Dylan’s not sure, honestly. “Sure. Yeah. If you want to.”

“Maybe,” Latts says, and then he lays down, turning over so he’s bumped up against Dylan, arranging the tangled-up sheet over them both.

Apparently they’re sleeping together tonight.

-

Latts seems pissy the afternoon before a home game. He slams the fridge door three times in a row, and Dylan’s tired of hearing the salad dressing bottles rattle together, so after the third time he gets up and stands next to Latts in the kitchen, arms crossed.

“What?” Latts asks moodily, but goes and sits down.

“Do you want Cheerios or Mini Wheats?” Dylan asks him, because cereal is his best calm-down tool.

“Whatever,” Latts says, so he gets Cheerios.

Later, they sprawl out in Latts’ bed because it’s bigger, ostensibly to nap, even though both of them are just fucking around on their phones.

Eventually Latts points his at Dylan. There’s a floppy dog with fur in its eyes on the screen.

“Cute,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Latts. “I guess.” He kicks his feet against Dylan’s legs, pretty hard. Latts may be way shorter, but he’s also way more jacked than Dylan, and it kind of hurts, honestly. “Tom adopted it.”

“Oh,” Dylan says. Eventually Latts puts his phone down, and lies back, sighing.

“It’s not that cute, actually,” Dylan says, since that feels like the right thing to say, and then rolls over so he’s half on top of Latts, hand on his hip. “Kind of weird looking.”

Latts helps him peel off his t-shirt and his shorts, and rests his knuckles under Dylan’s chin for a moment just looking at him before Dylan has to blink and squirm down, finding a spot between Latts’ spread legs.

“Tell me if you like it,” he asks before bending down. 

-

At some point, Latts turns into the person Dylan looks for in particular after he scores, rather than just whoever happens to be nearest him. They come up with a stupid little stick-tap routine for whenever one of them puts up a point. The whole thing feels nice, except for when he can’t sleep and starts to wonder if Connor’s ever seen it, if he’s ever felt jealous of Dylan’s friendship with Latts the way Dylan gets about Connor and Maroon, Connor and Marns.

Ultimately he decides Connor McDavid probably isn’t using his miniscule amount of downtime to go out of his way to watch Tucson Roadrunners games.

It just wouldn’t really make sense, when you think about it.

-

Dylan finally unpacks his last duffle bag at their apartment, the one with some sweaters and shit that he’d been sitting on, not sure he was going to need them or not. Connor calls, about as much as he ever does, and Latts keeps close tabs on the Caps.

The team keeps winning. Latts is a good leader, looks out for everyone without being too much of a mom about it. Dylan is producing, is skating faster, gets complimented by coach more than he’s used to. Nobody’s saying it yet, but they’re probably contenders for the Cup.

Connor texts him one off afternoon to ask if he can call, which is weird enough to make it clear that something’s up.

It still takes five minutes to get him to get him to admit that he’s freaking out about the Oilers’ tanking in the standings. 

“I know it’s… I don’t know.” Connor sounds so frazzled that Dylan couldn’t be annoyed even if he wanted to. Mostly he just feels bad for him. “I’m fucking up. I don’t know what to do to turn it around, and I’m supposed to be the captain, but I’m not _good_ at it. Everyone’s, like, counting on me, and what am I supposed to say? ‘Play better’?”

“Davo,” Dylan says. “Connor. Calm down, bud, okay?”

Latts raises an eyebrow at him from across the room. Dylan would take the call in his room or something, but at this point, it’s not like Latts doesn’t basically get the picture.

“We’re gonna lose to the fucking _Avs_ ,” Connor says morosely.

If Dylan was either a little smarter or a little dumber – he’s not sure which one, honestly – he would probably stop being willing to do this, the whole talking the Next Next One down from a ledge about not being the greatest in a league Dylan can’t even claw his way into.

As it is, though, he’s basically stuck in that sweet spot of being too fucked up over Connor to have any self-preservation.

And Connor’s still his friend, despite everything else.

“Okay,” Dylan says slowly. “First of all, you guys aren’t doing that badly. And second of all, I’m sorry, last I checked you were still putting up points every night.”

“It’s not enough, though.”

“What else are you supposed to do? Jump in the cage and play goal, too? Hire a goon to take out some knees?”

“No,” Connor agrees reluctantly.

“Right. Because you’re one player, dude, not the entire team. Look. If I had been called up, would you tell me it was all my fault the Yotes are so bad the franchise is about to get moved to that floating island of garbage in the middle of the ocean?” he asks.

“No,” Connor admits again.

“Is there an I in team, buddy?”

Connor sort of laughs. “Fuck off.” He sounds slightly less miserable, though.

“I’m serious, man. You know you can do this. Don’t get in your head, because that’s what’s gonna fuck you up. There’s a lot of season left, and your boys need you to be steady. Hand out, bro. Right now.” He knows Connor can’t see him, but he holds his hand out anyway, flat and steady. This was their little trick, when Connor was too freaked out. Put out their hands, wait for them to be calm, even if it took forever. Steady as a rock.

“Hand out,” Connor says, and then they just sit there, the sound of Connor clearly breathing in and out carefully so familiar in Dylan’s ear, and yet weirdly distorted by the distance.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Okay. Steady.”

“There you go, man,” Dylan says, smiling. “You got this.”

“Huh,” Latts says, smiling a little and looking thoughtful once Dylan finally hangs up the phone. Honestly, Dylan had sort of forgotten he was there. Side effect of Connor-vision.

“What?”

“Nothing, just – that was actually really good advice,” he says.

The praise blooms in Dylan’s chest in a weird way, warm and disorienting. “Don’t gotta sound so surprised,” he says, holding back a grin.

Latts just shrugs. “I can’t remember the last time I talk to Tommy on the phone,” he says after a minute, a little wistfully. Dylan’s about to say something stupid like “Sorry,” but Latts shakes his head before he can, clearly moving on. “Hey. You want steaks tonight?”

Dylan ends up going to the store to get them. He’s never gonna learn to cook, eating all his non-team meals with Latts and only really needing to contribute occasional grocery shopping to the effort, but that’s alright, probably. He’s better at loading a dishwasher now, at least.

“We’re doing alright, eh?” Dylan says while they’re outside. The steaks are on the shitty little grill they have, and for once there’s actually a decent breeze.

He’s not totally sure what he means by that, once it comes out, but Latts turns to him and doesn’t ask what he’s talking about, just makes a face like he’s thinking about it.

“Yeah. I think so,” he says eventually, and then goes back to the steaks.


End file.
